сатисфакция
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: He's had his teeth in Illya since their first meeting, trying to shake out his secrets and pry open his locked doors, but Illya never expected him to latch onto such a small question with such tenacity. It's like he's convinced himself that all the mysteries of Illya's past, present, and future are tied up in the number of cats in his possession. (Rated for Russian swearing)


_This one needs a little more explanation than most. I participated in a summer gift exchange on AO3, and one of the prompts assigned to me requested Illya trolling Solo about how many cats he had. At the time I received the prompt, I had recently been watching a lot of hilarious Slavic YouTube videos, and decided that I absolutely had to incorporate my newfound knowledge of Russian swearing and Slavic culture into what is essentially a crack fic. So that's what happened. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless._

* * *

...

* * *

It is, like many of life's great accomplishments, completely accidental and utterly inspired.

They've just arrived in Serbia, and a search through the cupboards of their purportedly "stocked" apartment turns up nothing but a loaf of black bread that probably witnessed the start of the first world war. It's not moldy, though, so Illya braves a bite – mostly as a challenge to Solo, if he's being honest with himself – and then promptly chokes on the horrid staleness of it.

"That would not even be suitable for квас," he manages, after spitting it out and drinking a large glass of water (all under Solo's highly amused scrutiny, of course).

"You mean the drink?" Solo asks, glee somewhat dimmed by confusion.

"No," Illya says, completely straight-faced, "my cat."

And oh, блин, that is just the beginning.

* * *

A couple of years into their partnership, it's safe to say that they've more or less got the important aspects of one another figured out. Of course they still have secrets, parts of themselves that they're not ready or willing to share, and those will almost certainly become known with time, but the foundations are there, uncovered, ready to be built on.

Solo is an incorrigible thief, light fingers ready to dip into any pocket and lift any jewelry, all too likely to duck off the path of a sanctioned break-in for ten minutes and come back with a folder tucked under his arm or a small painting distorting the lines of his jacket. (He doesn't go after larger art on missions, but that doesn't stop the occasional appearance of a canvas-wrapped frame in their lodging du jour.)

Gaby is grimly determined to prove herself, perhaps a bit more so than is necessarily healthy (not that he of all people can criticise her for that), but it makes her a good partner: willing to learn, but also willing to take risks and brave the unknown. Illya is not unfamiliar with the challenges of overcoming a…distasteful family history, and perhaps he has no useful advice to offer, and perhaps they never discuss it, but it creates something of a bond between them. Faint, weak, maybe, but there.

Gaby also has a wicked sense of humour, which isn't really a surprise, but it's a joy to witness nonetheless, even if Illya finds himself on the wrong end of her jokes as often as Solo does. Life is about taking what you can get and not looking too closely at what you end up with.

So when Solo swallows the line about a cat named Квас hook, line, and sinker, well. Illya would be fool to pass up an opportunity like that.

* * *

"Ah," says Illya, adding a thick dollop of cream to his coffee. He doesn't usually, but it's been the sort of week that demands unorthodoxy. "Reminds me of кефир."

"Кефир," Gaby repeats, tasting the word. "It sounds familiar – have you mentioned it before?"

"It's fermented milk, more or less," Solo supplies without looking up from his newspaper. "Considered something of a delicacy." There's a neat sticking plaster on his forehead, covering the three small stitches needed to close a gash at his hairline. Gaby's left wrist is in a thick brace, and Illya's side is still twinging three days after taking a spray of birdshot from their target. A stressful week, but not the worst they've had.

"It has a very rich taste," Illya agrees, "though it sounds odd to foreigners. It is also," he adds casually, "a common name for house cats."

Solo goes completely still. He might not even be breathing.

"Oh, do you have a cat?" Gaby asks, delighted, jumping in without hesitation.

"One or two," Illya answers.

Solo clears his throat.

Illya smiles into his coffee.

* * *

Five alleged cats later – Урод, Ушанка, Сука, Братан, and Дебил – he's fairly certain Solo suspects something. He doesn't know _what_ he suspects, but that doesn't matter: suspicion is a perfectly acceptable outcome, and Solo does a very amusing suspicious. It's almost cute.

Could be better, though, so he enlists Gaby.

She's entirely too thrilled to be in on the game, and for a single moment, looking at the unnatural gleam in Gaby's eyes at the promise of organized chaos, Illya feels what may be an inkling of sympathy for Solo.

It doesn't last long.

"Just little bits," he tells Gaby. "Enough to keep him guessing, but not enough to make him think he has an answer."

"Any particular reason for this?" Gaby asks, but not like she really cares. Just digging at him a little bit, seeing what motivations or backstory or insights she can glean.

He shrugs. "Why not?"

Gaby beams.

* * *

Between the two of them, they needle Solo into an artful state of bristling paranoia, batting him back and forth between them like a pair of masterful tennis players. They don't let it interfere with work, of course, because current pass-time aside they actually are professionals, but any time not spent actively working missions (recon, surveillance, research, any of it) is fair game.

"Oh, Ушанка," Gaby sighs as they pass a fluffy black mop of a dog on the sidewalk. "He was that color, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Illya agrees blandly. "I assume he still is – he didn't die, he just ran away."

"Oh really?" Solo asks, feigning a level of disinterest that he has to know is fooling no one. "And why would he do that?"

"Сука is bully," Illya says, and leaves it there.

They're walking in a cluster, with Gaby and Illya in front and Solo in the rear. It's mostly because the sidewalk is crowded, but it's also probably partly due to the fact that somehow, Solo has gotten it in his head that he and Gaby are a burgeoning couple.

To be fair, they _have_ been engaged in some rather furtive meetings recently, and have broken off many a soft conversation at his entrance, but that's not because they're a couple. They're discussing _strategy_. Honestly, they're not even that subtle about it. If Solo doesn't know by now that he's being played by both of them, there may not be hope for him.

Whatever the reasons, Solo is walking a step behind them, and they pretend not to hear the soft scratching of his pen as he takes notes in their periphery.

* * *

"Is it Урод or Братан who hates milk?" Gaby asks when they have a quiet moment in the elevator.

"Is Кефир, actually," Illya answers.

"How ironic," Solo mutters darkly. They ignore him, and the doors ding open, and their work takes precedence once more.

* * *

The game has been going on for _months_ , and at this point half the joy is watching Solo try to talk himself out of playing.

He has to have realized that Illya will never tell him the truth, regardless of how much or little this particular truth matters, but the temptation of knowledge – more specifically, knowledge that will give him an advantage – is one he's never been able to resist. He's had his teeth in Illya since their first meeting, trying to shake out his secrets and pry open his locked doors, but Illya never expected him to latch onto such a small question with such tenacity. It's like he's convinced himself that all the mysteries of Illya's past, present, and future are tied up in the number of cats in his possession.

That is not true, of course – he cannot begin to imagine what Solo expects to learn from the answer – but even so, it's far too late to give in.

Solo will never learn the answer, if only so that Illya doesn't have to find himself a new game.

Also, the cowboy should learn some boundaries. And maybe some humility, but one step at a time.

* * *

It was probably inevitable that Solo would turn to bugs once more.

Illya finds all of them with relative ease and dumps them in Solo's coffee the next morning. Solo just shrugs, conceding the loss.

"Ruins the taste, you know," is all he says, but Gaby frowns.

"Isn't that toxic?"

"I doubt it's hot enough to seriously melt anything," Solo says, then takes a swig and grimaces. "Just gives it a little extra flavor."

Gaby rolls her eyes and goes back to her own coffee. "Well, if you die today, I guess we'll know why."

"Murdered by my own partner," Solo sighs. "Tragic."

Illya rolls his eyes. "Always so dramatic. No need to be Вадим."

Solo's eyes narrow. "Is that...?"

"Maybe." Illya smiles. "Maybe not."

* * *

Gaby slips him a folded scrap of paper as they pass each other outside a department store; he unfolds it once he's inside, reads _he's started a chart_ , and tries to suppress a vicious smile. Based on the reaction of the sales associate, he is less than successful. He manages to salvage the situation, though, and buys Gaby a hat on his way out. She's earned it.

That evening, he casually walks behind Solo's chair in the common room of their current apartment, casually glances at the newspaper he's been glaring at for over an hour now, and finds (with very little surprise) that the newspaper is merely a cover; pinned against it is a sheet of notebook paper with what looks like a crudely drawn elimination puzzle and a profusion of scribbles around it, too small and distant to make out without peering too obviously.

So it's going well.

For him, that is.

* * *

Then Solo gets stabbed, and they take a break for a bit. All told, it could have been much worse, but between the stress of the situation leading up to it and the considerable increase in stress following it, no one really has the spirit for jokes.

"Hey, Peril," Solo croaks a few days in, when he's starting to get tired of being in the hospital but not quite ready to leave yet. Gaby and Illya have both been spending most of their time trying to clean up the absolute пиздец that the mission had turned into, but they take turns dropping in on Solo and making sure he hasn't attempted to escape, attempted to seduce any of the medical staff, or otherwise given them anything else to worry about. And, well, to make sure that he's doing all right.

"What," Illya asks blunty, and it's not that he's angry, or even irritated, he just hasn't slept more than two hours a night since Solo was hurt and he's _tired_.

"Pass me that folder?"

There's a thin file folder on the small table on Solo's right side, and it would be well within his reach if his right arm weren't currently out of commission, but it is, so Illya picks up the folder and puts it into Solo's waiting left hand. Solo brings up his knees to rest the folder against them, then flips it open and sorts through it one-handed. "I just have one question," he says, "and then you should probably go lie down before you fall down."

"What," Illya says again, but this time it's more of a sigh. He's so, _so_ tired.

"Блядь, yes or no?"

Solo whips out a piece of paper, which turns out to be what looks like a torn-out page from a magazine. On it is a picture of a grey and white cat.

It's a good thing Illya's learned to keep so much of himself inside, or his relief would be embarrassingly obvious.

"No," he answers, and lets a small smile escape. " _Сука_ блядь."

"God _damn_ it," Solo sighs. "I was so sure this time."

"Try again tomorrow," Illya suggests, and tucks the picture back into the folder. "Check your chart. Who knows – I may even give you clue."

"You would never."

Illya smiles.

* * *

...

* * *

квас (kvass): a fermented drink made with black bread

блин (blin): literally means pancake, but is also used as an all-purpose interjection

кефир (kefir): a Russian/Eastern European drink made of fermented milk

Урод (urod): idiot, fool

Ушанка (ushanka): the fluffy russian hat with ear flaps

Сука (suka): literally "bitch" but also used as a strong general insult

Братан (bratan): somewhat milder general insult

Дебил (debil): annoying idiot

Вадим (Vadim): male name, also sworn enemy of The Boris

пиздец (pizdets): big mess, fuck-up

Блядь (blyat): fuck

Сука блядь (suka blyat): an interjection that's basically 'fuck' squared

* * *

 _Thank you for reading! As the summary mentions, this was written for a prompt that requested ridiculousness, hence the ridiculousness. My knowledge of Russian comes pretty much exclusively from the YouTube channel "Life Of Boris," so take my usage and translations with a heaping handful of salt. I feel bad for using Сука, because I didn't initially know it meant "bitch"; nowadays it seems to be used in a completely gender-neutral way, but still. I decided to leave it as a cautionary tale about using languages you don't speak, and also for video-quoting purposes that are amusing to no one but me._


End file.
